


Gifted

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Bunker domestic, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Sam had the Bunker all to himself on Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 43





	Gifted

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilovejared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilovejared/gifts).



> For 12 Days of Wincestmas 2020 (Original [here](https://ilovejared.tumblr.com/post/190148172345/day-12-gifted-mature).)

God was dead—or, neutralized, at least, and somehow Darkness and Death being at the wheel had brought the world—or, universe or, multiverse or, whatever-the-hell—something like peace.

Dean took off for a last supply run. Everyone was coming over: Cas of course, Donna and Jody and Jody’s girls, bunch of the hunters from Michael’s world, Aiden and Krissy, Josephine, Eileen… even Donatello was crawling up out of his prophet-hole for Christmas dinner.

So, Sam had the Bunker all to himself on Christmas Eve. Gas-station presents wrapped in their traditional Sunday funnies sat under the tree. White twinkle lights and silver tinsel sparkled on the boughs. Red ribbon and green garland— _“It’s called Winchester pine, Sammy! We have to!”_ —wound around the stair rail.

Place smelled like peppermint and pumpkin pie. Sam’s boots thumped the tiles, rang loud in the quiet before, between the chaos.

Dean had the kitchen laid out just-so. But Sam could execute his plan without disturbing much. Big pot for boiling water. Baking dish. Mason jar of farmer’s market pasta sauce and Dean’s homemade, three-meat, grilled meatballs from the freezer. Sam set about heating, seasoning and assembling. Basil, fresh from the Bunker’s greenhouse. Good mozzarella that Dean liked to gripe about but always kept around because Sam snacked on it.

Dish in the oven, tinfoil-topped. Sam set a timer on his phone and headed down to the storerooms. Took him some searching, but he found what he was looking for. Made his way back up the stairs and got to work transforming the library.

Sam was reading in the map room when Dean got home.

“Heya Sammy!”

“Hey.” Sam looked up.

“Good news! I found that douchey organic eggnog you—” Dean sniffed, squinted at him. “What am I smelling here?”

Sam put down his book and stood. “Baked ziti.”

“You cooked?” Dean clanged down the stairs, bulging grocery bags in both arms.

Sam shrugged. “I reheated, mostly.” Took the bags and turned for the kitchen. “Go have a seat.”

“Damn, Sammy!” Dean’s footsteps trailed toward the table he’d set. “You went all out, huh?”

Sam grinned to himself. “I am capable of nesting too, y’know!”

Click of Dean’s Zippo followed him around the corner. Sam put up the groceries and carefully pulled his ziti and garlic bread out of the warm oven.

Dean stepped up behind and slid his arms around Sam’s waist. “I’ll hand it to you, man; you surprised me.”

Heat climbed Sam’s neck as Dean bunched up his shirt and scratched circles on his belly. “Grab the salads, huh?” He was not gonna let Dean distract him, let their meal get cold.

Dean huffed against Sam’s neck, but he got in line. Helped carry plates to the library, where he’d lit the candles, opened the wine.

“Good stuff.” Dean picked up the bottle. “Is this—”

“Yeah.” Sam ducked his head. “Been sitting in that box—”

“Since Dad was here.”

Sam peeked up.

Dean licked his lips and thumbed the label. “Ain’t no sense lettin’ it collect dust.” Stuck out a hand. “Here.”

Sam passed him the glasses and Dean poured.

“Sit!” Sam gestured. Grinned. “Or, I could pull your chair out for you—”

“Fuck you.” Dean sat.

“Merry Christmas!” Sam smiled, extra sweet.

Dean speared penne, spun his fork through stretchy cheese and scooped up sauce. “Holy shit, Sam,” with his mouth full, “this is awesome.”

Blush lit Sam’s cheeks.

Dinner passed in easy silence. Clink of forks on plates and Dean’s pleased groans the only sounds. Sam stared. Watched Dean’s lashes flutter, lips and jaws work. Callused, crooked fingers lifted delicate glass, and Dean’s tongue flashed. Throat flexed as the wine washed down.

Sam poured their second round. Dean jerked his chin in thanks. He dabbed his mouth—with his actual napkin, plucked from his actual lap—and raised a toast.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

Glasses tapped.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Later—candles snuffed and dishes washed and funnies shredded on the floor—Dean spread Sam out on a blanket by the glittering tree.

“Want you, Sammy,” breathed on his skin, as gifted hands skimmed down his sides.

Sam arched, sparked where they collided, muttered, “Yes, Dean. God.”

And Dean moved on him—stroking, stretching, kissing bruises in between his thighs—after all this time, Sam still reacted, bucked and writhed and trembled. Opened, moaned Dean’s name and took him, quick and deep and brutal. Beautiful. Sam roared. Soaked their bellies. Muscles quaked and tears escaped and Dean drove on. Hammering. Panting.

Dean was cleaning them, next thing Sam knew. Green eyes, swollen lips and sweaty shoulders shined in the soft light. Sam seized Dean, back of his neck and dragged him down. Kissed him. Tangled tongues and mingled breath.

“Take me to bed,” Sam said.

Dean smirked. “Probably oughta straighten up in here first.”

Sam shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay, Sammy.” Kissing again. “Okay.”


End file.
